Randall

There are bigger worries than getting the perfect photo. But in my junior year at the University of Georgia, for one quarter, that's what I worried about most. As a perfectionist, I lived in misery trying to take decent black-and-white photos for my journalism class. I would shoot pictures, but not know if they turned out well until I printed them in the darkroom. And, there were no do-overs. My friend Randall saw me through my misery and listened to my whines. One night, I needed a photo of streetlights. Randall grabbed the camera, snapped a photo and told me to quit worrying. I felt better. Randall didn't take other photos for me. And I survived the class. I lost touch with Randall after college, only to find him again in his obituary. In December, 18 years ago, Randall died of AIDS. In college, I chose not to guess his secret. Thirty years ago, college wasn't such an enlightened and liberating place; and AIDS was a bad joke about Rock Hudson and some other movie star. Technology and thinking have progressed. I like cameras the way they are now--with instant notice of how photos turn out. AIDS is not an ignorant joke. And, I hope, good people like Randall no longer feel compelled to live secret lives with private worries. Randall was funny, hard-working, endlessly patient and really tall. He suffered through my worries, while I never knew about his. I don't think about Randall often. But each December, I wish my long-ago friend was still here.